


Hard to Say

by romango



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bisexual Alistair (Dragon Age), Daveth survives ? ? ?, Dumb bi noble boys, Fluff, In-game Dialogue, M/M, Morrigan isn’t straight, Multi, Mute Warden (Dragon Age), Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-11 09:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15312606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romango/pseuds/romango
Summary: At first, Alistair and Daveth really didn’t have much to say to Duncan’s new recruit, which was alright because said recruit didn’t either. But that kind of relationship tends to change when almost damn everything’s trying to kill you for a year, even your poor beating heart — as Alistair finds out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey !! this is my first fanfic in like 5 years so forgive me if it’s a lil clunky (im also posting from mobile so if the format’s all weird, that explains it). it’s gonna be a slow burning ride y’all
> 
> Note: this contains quite a lot of ingame dialogue (slightly twisted here and there) at first, which you can skim if you want !! it'll get more original later
> 
> if you like bi alistair and morrigan, and daveth— this one’s for u <3

1

Duncan knew the journey to Ostagar would have been quicker had his recruit not tried to run away at every opportunity.

Tried to… He almost succeeded once, when he managed to steal a merchant’s horse and ride far enough to extend their journey by a day and a half. Duncan had chased him down and dragged him back, of course, but not before a bruise-ridden tussle that left them both unncessarily exhausted and Duncan remindful that he was very much getting old.

The boy’s commitment to getting as far away from him as possible was rather admirable, uncanny even.

Still, it wasn’t a look Duncan took pride in seeing. Those raw, bloodshot eyes and their infinite reservoir. Tears came heaviest at dusk, Duncan noticed.

Duncan also noticed early on that the boy refused to eat. He ate little to nothing. Unmet necessities were often pitied and pinned against the biggest blame; grief had surely stolen his appetite. But there was something suspicious about his hunger. It was rebellion, a subtle and stupid alternative to his getaways. And when Duncan had taken him by the arms, shoved meat and bread into his mouth and said, ‘Please allow yourself this’— the boy chewed, then broke into a sob, a sob so muted and wrought that Duncan couldn’t quite watch.

He couldn’t let him have his way. Hunger strikes didn’t kill darkspawn.

By the twentieth morning, Duncan announced they were nearing Ostagar over breakfast, or something resembling a breakfast. Cousland could hardly call boiled clovers a breakfast. He hadn’t known clovers were even edible.

“We should arrive in two days if the weather bids us well. For now, you should eat.”

His recruit only nodded and looked down, clutching his hand. The closer they reached their destination, the more his escapes became futile and dishonourable. Such kind of logic must have dawned on him at some point for he began to follow, cooporate, trust — bitterly, perhaps — even if only for the last remaining days in their journey; Duncan was grateful for it.

  
“Dead.” The King could not have sounded any more broken. “Dead?”

Duncan studied them both. Cailan, for all his cheeriness not one minute ago, looked panicked. Regretful? If so, then he and the teyrn must have been close.

Cailan’s words struggled. “Then that means... You see, I had hoped Fergus and Bryce would forg… ”

Cousland gave Cailan an understanding perusal, quite like he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind if Cailan cried, as a son more than a sovereign. He wouldn’t mind, but he didn’t say so. For all the words and sentiments he knew, they now betrayed him at the hollow of his throat. But Cousland withdrew the look quickly. His head lowered under the weight of selfish thought: that he considered his hurt far swollen than that of the King’s, and that this sort of honesty would condemn him to a hanging.

“Your Majesty?” Duncan inquired after some time. But Cailan never stopped looking at Cousland, even when Cousland had stopped looking at him.

“As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and… Howe will hang. I know that will not bring your family back but you have my word,” he said. “No doubt you wish to see Fergus. Maker knows how much I mean to do so myself now that…” Cailan swallowed. “Unfortunately, Loghain sent him and his soldiers on a scouting mission in the Wilds.”

“Is a sooner meeting not possible, Your Majesty?” asked Duncan considerately. Cousland glanced upwards, appreciative.

“I fear not. We cannot even send word. I apologise, but all I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn. At least until the battle is over.”

One of the King’s soldiers turned around, then spun back after squinting at a figure across the bridge. “Your Majesty, I believe teyrn Loghain wishes to–”

“Bore me with his strategies? I know, I know.”

“Before you go, Your Majesty, your uncle sends his greetings. Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week.”

“Ha!” They all watched Cailan contort his juvenile face. It was embarrassingly unsophisticated. “Eamon just wants in on the glory. We’ve already won three battles against these monsters, why should tomorrow be any different? It will be over soon.” He said the last sentence with a sort-of intimate assurance to Cousland.

But Duncan spoke mildly, “I’m not certain the Blight can be ended quite as… quickly as you wish.”

“I’m not even sure this is a true Blight,” Cailan almost snapped. “Plenty of darkspawn, but alas, no archdemon.”

“Disappointed, Your Majesty?”

“I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! But this will have to do… Now I must go. Loghain might just feed me to the darkspawn out of impatience.” He nodded at them both, compensating perhaps hurt when Cousland didn’t quite return it back with prideful, broadening shoulders. “Farewell, Grey Wardens.”

Now, there could be no stumbling back.

 

2

Daveth was his favourite.

Not that he would say that aloud. Alistair knew better than to get all picky and choosy, especially now. But Daveth didn’t butcher his reputation as a cutpurse too bad; he was stealthy enough, he hit well enough. Certainly there was still a lot of room to hone his skill and– and eat? Daveth looked bony even under his armor. His impoverished bearing didn’t look to be leaving him anytime soon. And unfortunately, Grey Wardens weren’t often invited to pretty banquets. Still, he found the street thief actual good company. He had a poignant tongue. Wit was as good a shield as any, Alistair believed that wholeheartedly.

Now Jory… Jory had a lot of skill. Of course he did. Didn’t he win a tournament?

“Jory, forgive me, I’ve suddenly become mighty interested– you’ve won a tournament, yes?”

“Yes, that’s right. In Highever, where my wife Helena hails from. My dear Helena…” Ser Knight said it like he was walking past blue skies and meadows rather than grey clouds and rabbit shit. “We’ll be together again before you know it.”

Alistair wasn’t so sure of that if he were to be perfectly honest. But again, he wouldn’t say that aloud.

“Why?”

Alistair raised his brows lazily. “Sorry?”

“Why the sudden interest? Have you… won a tournament also? Is that how you got recruited?”

“No. I actually got recruited for losing a tournament,” Alistair said, hunched over the remains of a hurlock. He wasn’t lying, he just didn’t feel like explaining his quadruple scuffle with three templars and a grand cleric over his recruitment.

Jory didn’t look very convinced. Jory didn’t look convinced of anything, really. Well, one can’t have them all... That was fine, Jory had Helena.

“What about you, Daveth?”

Daveth turned to Jory with half-lidded eyes. “You’re asking the cutpurse, you know. No tournament trophies, no wife, nothing. ‘Was just me and the rope, it was.”

“What about that ring of yours, there, on your finger,” said Jory, pointing. Alistair looked up as soon as he finished collecting blood.

“Stolen.” Daveth grinned.

Alistair put the vial in a drawstring, strangely relieved. Bad as it sounded, it was actually better that Daveth hadn’t much to go back to. A lover at home waiting had too many… implications. Which was admittedly why he had this doubts on Duncan’s third recruit.

He wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t give his name, and with the way he looked ready to break down at any moment, they wouldn’t beg for it. Daveth suggested ‘giant’, but that fell out of favour quickly; the guy was big and an equally big reaction from him didn’t seem a treat. Jory pointed out he had a dog – Alistair wasn’t sure it was just ‘a dog’ but neither was he sure what dog it was – and a shield with the Highever heraldry, why not name him something that meant dog? He’d heard the name ‘Connor’ was popular in Highever because of the great kennels there — he and Helena had planned on naming their child that, too…

Only later would Alistair think over this and realise the coldness he felt for the name was likely tethered to the ruptures of his childhood at Redcliffe. In the end, all he said was that it was a funny name. Daveth agreed. ‘That would mean two Connors, a crybaby and another crybaby but bigger!’ Alistair liked to think he hadn’t laughed then, but the truth was he probably did.

They settled on Ciaran, for his black hair.

He didn’t look like he cared. He took the name kind of like how a child would take socks for a gift: with blatant indifference. In the end, what mattered was that he was responsive to it.

It wasn’t the doubt of survivability that Alistair had on Ciaran, it was the general feeling of awkwardness that came with being around someone like- like him. Because Ciaran’s presence was so palpably disinclined, as though he wasn’t meant to be here or with them. He was cooperative, all the wolves and darkspawn dropping dead the past hour had been proof.

And yet past cooperation, there was little else. Ciaran followed but strayed far enough to give the impression of two groups rather than one. That was alright, needing space was alright... But when he fought, he fought with little energy. He also had a sad fixity in his gaze, a refinement in eye-contact that might have spoke of his value on manners, but he looked on and around like everything was dull and transparent. His communication was dreadfully brief, nods terse and prudent.

Alistair stared hard at the fibrous old map. “The cache should be nearby, just a little west,” he said, blatantly raising his voice so Ciaran would hear. Metal met his forehead with an unusually loud thud, and before Alistair could process that he’d walked right into the man, shoving him slightly – with both Daveth and Jory watching him – Ciaran only stepped aside without so much as a word and moved onwards. It was… bizarrely polite of him, saving him from embarrassment like that.

Alistair pulled a face to the sky. Did secondhand embarrassment have limits?

“I’m freezing,” Jory said after a while. He had a little chatter between his teeth that made it clear enough that he was, in fact, freezing. Alistair was too, his ears were burning and their unrelenting crimson made that painfully obvious. “But if this is what Duncan demands, then so be it. I suppose he’s doing what he can, only fitting we should too.”

“Yeah, he’s all right. Old bugger can run, that’s for sure,” said Daveth, patting his legs.

This time it was Cousland’s turn to pull a face, though nobody would have seen it.

“We’ll be out in no time, Ser Knight, don’t you worry,” Alistair said, marching uphill. “Look, here’s the ruins and...aaand-”

“The cache?”

Alistair circled around on his heel and frowned. “No cache.”

“Rats,” Daveth said, defeated, kind of.

“What? Where?” Jory asked, and turned around. There was a pause. “It was a joke.”

They nodded their heads like adults did to a child who was trying – trying what exactly, they hadn’t a clue, but trying nonetheless – all while Ciaran went to sit down on the sturdiest of the stone debris. Alistair hoped Ciaran wasn’t mad at them for the lack of seriousness on display, Maker knows he was; he didn’t know what to tell Duncan: that the treaties were just gone? Like that? That would surely make disappointment inevitable, and Alistair didn’t like a disappointed Duncan. No, he didn’t like it one bit.

Alistair got down on one knee and began shifting rubble, trying not to upset the bedrock of what Ciaran was sitting on. But Ciaran acted in a heartbeat. He stood up, lifted whatever he could with those long arms of his, which was to say quite a hefty amount; and before long, all four of them were picking and heaving away at the ruins. They did this all in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and if the temperature had not dipped then likely the warmth they felt came from each other.

“I’ve got something,” Alistair said. He’d felt wood underneath a tremendous wodge of wall. “Ciaran, reach it for me, will you? We’ll hold this thing up.”

Jory neared Daveth’s side of the load since he needed more help, what with Daveth’s skinny strength, and Alistair did well enough with his own pair of strong arms. Ciaran tightened his shoulders and craned his head underneath, reaching for that ‘something’ Alistair had. It took three tries of lifting, reaching, resting. But once they managed to haul it out, their cooperative efforts were quashed regrettably.

“Empty.”

“‘Not just the cache that’s empty,” Daveth said, “my arms, too. Empty of energy.”

Alistair scrunched his nose. “I’m having another peak. You three be on the lookout.” He went back to the debris and hastily searched through. It was almost funny how his big hands looked like tiny raccoon ones with all the moving they did.

Jory seemed to have gotten cold again. He’d begun the habit of concealing his shivering under the poor disguise of fidgeting. And like all times he felt cold, he also felt the need to say, “I’m cold.”

“We know, Ser Knight,” Daveth said, sitting on the cache, “but is Highever all that different? I hear it’s just as chilly up there as it is down here.”

Jory glanced at Ciaran. He figured he might have something to say for once but all he did was clutch his left hand protectively, like it was tender or even in danger. He did that a lot. Was he injured there? Bleeding? Broken? Or was it just some nervous habit like biting nails or— Ciaran looked up wildly and Jory jolted, caught in the act of staring. He didn’t hear what Ciaran managed to croak because Daveth himself shot up quicker than a fly and ungracefully proceeded to crash over the cache. He groaned while Jory whipped his head around.

“Well, well, what have we here?”

“Witch-!” Daveth’s throat let out pathetically.

Alistair — just his luck —bumped his head (again) from under the rubble he’d stuck himself under, and retreated back to the group.

“Aughhh…” He cupped his scalp and winced. “Don’t answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

She definitely dressed Chasind. She wore worn-down hides of various but dark shades, all unabashedly patched together. Her arms and legs were wrapped in strips of leather. Wolf fur mostly constituted for her boots, and likely the poor same animal made its way into the pelt she wore as a sort-of hood. Nothing about her looks professed a care for conventional fashion, not even the adorning feathers, bones and fangs that must have been meant to be jewellery. Everything about her was wild.

“Oooh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you!” she taunted, flapping her arms in mock intimidation. Daveth found it scary enough and staggered to Ciaran’s side.

Alistair squinted. “Yes… Swooping. Is. Bad.”

“Did you hear me?” Daveth blurted. “She’s a witch of the wilds, she is! She’ll turn us into toads and put us into a pot!”

“If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’ll be a nice change,” Jory said.

“Witch of the wilds…” the woman said, amused. “Such idle fancies, those legends. Now, what say you? Or shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer…”

“Here no longer?” Alistair scoffed. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re… some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!”

“How very eloquent. Hmm. Perhaps your friend here has better words to offer?” She nodded to Ciaran who, then hadn’t once kept his eyes off her in caution, now looked slightly uncomfortable. “You, tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilised.”

Alistair took one careful look at Ciaran then said, “No need to single him out. His name is Ciaran.” It wasn’t actually, which was why he told her. “And those documents you’ve taken are Grey Warden property, which I suggest you return.”

She didn’t appreciate much for Alistair’s intervening presence, hence the jabbing, yellow coming his way. “Fine, you may call me Morrigan. And ‘twas not I who removed them, ‘twas my mother.”

“The Witch of the Wilds,” Daveth whispered but Jory side-eyed him.

“Or they could just be good folk trying to help out,” said Jory.

Daveth was incredulous. “Good folk?!”

“I don’t know any ‘good folk’ who can just break into magically sealed chests,” Alistair said to the recruits, eyes still on Morrigan.

Jory paused. “You… have a point.”

“So what do we do?” Daveth asked. “You’re all short-ranged, and I don’t want to… well- I could make a distra—”

“I don’t quite like whispering men,” Morrigan called out, “rarely does any good come from it. Might I suggest something? Talk to my mother about your documents.”

“Yes, and have tea and biscuits with her too, shall we?”

“‘Twas only a suggestion, I make no demands of you, boy,” she said to Alistair, whose retort was one second too late for she’d turned around, swifter than Alistair thought her clothes ought to let her. “Follow if you please.” And from there, she disappeared past the weeds.

“Don’t follow her,” Alistair said immediately. “We’ll need to go back to Duncan and tell him.”

“Tell him what now? That we’ve no treaties or anything?” inquired Daveth.

“I’d say our empty hands make that perfectly clear,” Jory put in.

Ciaran only nodded.

Alistair stared and they stared right back. “Fine!” He threw his hands up. “Fine. But if we all end up croaking in a pot, that’s on you all.” And they too disappeared past the weeds.


	2. Chapter 2: Drinkers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's a bit of a weird one ??? i apologise for that ! im making use of a lotta characters (and other stuff) -- from significant ones to those only in codexes -- even if the use is just for passing dialogue ;) i might reference them at the end of some chapters, if that helps 
> 
> and sorry for the slow update !! i actually got most of this written yesterday because i did nothing on my birthday HAH

1

They didn’t end up croaking in a pot that evening. The famed ‘Witch of the Wilds’ had insisted her daughter take the role of guide and lead them back to Ostagar. Now that surely sounded worthy of gratitude, except she barely walked them half the journey and decided they were fine on their own.

“Are you not four abled men?” They were. “Am I your mother?” She was not. “Then off you go.” That they did.

She didn’t even say goodbye.

Yet it was begrudgingly thanks to Morrigan that they reached the fortress far quicker than they expected. And when they did, they were met with the abrupt announcement that Duncan’s initial plan of immediately commencing the ritual was to be postponed. Instead, it was for midnight, when there was little to no potential for anyone to stumble across... _that,_  and Duncan - along with Ciaran, strangely enough - had been called in a peculiar manner of urgency to  see the King.

Thus, it was for the sudden lack of mission that Jory abandoned the group to write, likely to his wife. And it was for this lack of company that Alistair and Daveth found it elsewhere, at a group of almost-inebriated soldiers and wardens.

But it was good company, all the more for the presence of one twittering, bold-bearded ‘Birdy’, as they liked to call him.

He was incredibly popular. One couldn’t tell if it were his looks, being just as bulky as Alistair but with a natural maturity about him (you saw it in his heavy shoulders, the little wrinkling around his eyes), or his personality which radiated abnormal friendliness. Simply put, he attracted attention and people were eager to attract his. That wasn’t so easy, as people found out, whose conversations were particularly bare of anything that wasn’t carnal; it was all talk of glory, drinking and sex. Daveth seemed more engaged with that kind of talk than Alistair did or could be. He’d garnered the affection of his own little audience at the table.

“She was so mad!” Daveth elbowed Alistair. “Was just like that mage fellow you roused up! ‘Cept she made a quiet exit, he didn’t.”

Alistair shrugged. “Uh-huh.”

“You annoyed a mage?” The bearded ‘Birdy’ leaned over, still holding his drink.

“All I did was deliver a message. Who knew mages were so sensitive,” Alistair said mildly. He hadn’t expected a roaring laughter to pursue him.

“Oh I know what you mean!” he said, smiling widely. So he was agreeing, but there was nothing constituting as malice in his agreement, only an odd fondness; it was quite like the man had his own experiences of rousing up mages accidentally.

“Do you now?” Daveth questioned.

“I do,” the man said vaguely. “Mages– they aren’t so bad, even the annoying ones.” Everyone burst out laughing.

“What’re you spillin’!” one soldier bawled.

“Aye, Birdy, you feeling alright? Out the tree so early, are you?” another soldier joked, slapping the man on the back with such brute force that Alistair and Daveth almost felt it.

The man took the slap with a light shrug, befitting for that enormous frame of his. “No!”

“Oh?!”

“Shit! Maybe a little!” Even Alistair had to laugh at that. The man looked tipsy at best, a gentle flush was creeping over golden undertones and he seemed to glow however much the evening sky allowed. But he set aside his drink, with enough consciousness to know that being totally drunk did darkspawn a favour.

“Just a little?! Somebody bring Birdy another!”

In an instant, an elven boy came scurrying over, big eyes accompanied with even bigger eyebags. Somebody pushed him to the right direction, but with more force than was necessary, and he stumbled against the Birdy’s back. He wasn’t phased by the cruel snickering that ensued, which was awfully sad and telling, and he continued to reach for the half-full tankard of ale even with the soldiers’ mock scolding.

“It’s alright,” the Birdy gently assured. “Don’t listen to them, I’m fine.”

“Yes, but your drink-”

“I meant the drink. I’m fine! I don’t need more unless pissing on darkspawn is effective. I’ve reached my limit for today. Thank you.” He gave the boy a friendly smile. “You can go. Try— try and get some rest... maybe?” The boy paused, then nodded and left.

“Kind of you,” Alistair commented to fill the immediate silence.

“Aha, was raised to be,” came the answer. His cheeriness didn’t fall off the face of the earth, only he made way for a more solemn and thoughtful expression. “But you know, I was serious.” He looked up at the doubtful reception. “Come on. About the mages... they’re not so bad. Really, they aren’t.”

“Well, they’re useful,” someone put in, short of enthusiasm.

“Nah,” Birdy waved off, “not like that. What am I, a politician? It’s not about the usefulness... I mean as people—”

“ _People_ he says!”

“Hey now, they’re people just as we are. They think, they feel, they love...” A few wardens nodded to themselves, while soldiers looked away dismissively. “And they should be allowed to express that. Can they? In the circles, can they express that? Not really…”

A vague reverie suspended Alistair for only a moment, yet it was long enough to quash a blooming query from within him.

“At least I think they can’t,” Birdy continued hotfoot. “I reckon it like this: we could do with a little less dog-loving, and a little more other-people-understanding. And by understanding, I don’t mean getting preachy—”

Suddenly the bird flew. Or rather, someone forced him into doing so. He didn’t land so gracefully either, crashing down onto the floor with one leg still propped under the bench. Everybody shot up and stared as he groaned and slightly hiccuped.

“Bit rude,” he mumbled loud enough for his culprit to hear. He steadied himself on one hand as his foundation, with the all intention of getting up... but the culprit wasn’t generous enough to let him. He kicked him in the arms, knocking him over once again.

The whole table erupted.

_“FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!”_

Alistair felt the woman next to him thwack his face as she cheered; she didn’t look mightily apologetic about it so Alistair sat back down. He could stand to sit down, there was a view of everything from down even down here: these two men, bearing strange resemblance with their black hair, build and complexions were brawling with raw strength on the ground. They fought differently, Alistair noticed.

Daveth noticed it too. “He moves quicker, the Birdy does. Other lad’s strong as bloody oak though, I’ll give him that.”

“That’s a whole ‘nother level of sibling rivalry,” Alistair heard the woman next to him say.

“Siblings?”

“What? Is it not obvious?” Alistair looked back at them.

“We talked about this,” the brother said, trying to escape the older man’s grasp. Nobody had a clue what he was talking about, and they didn’t care for it. They wanted to see a fight, excitement, something.

“Then let’s talk over this!”

“No!”

Birdy tightened his grip. “No?!”

“Get off–”

“Carver!”

“Garrett!”

“SER HAWKES.”

Everybody quietened. Alistair mustered up enough politeness to hold back a whistle but Daveth, appropriate as ever, did it for him. It earned a tangible glare from an older looking man but his disapproval was meant for elsewhere, particularly for the two brothers whose mess of limbs were still tangled like weeds on the ground.

“Captain Va—”

“Not a word, boys. Make up, hug it out, kiss if you have to” — Carver shoved his brother at that — “but I want you all sobered up in ten. Especially you, Garrett. You’ll be up front in this battle.”

Alistair sighted Duncan. He’d exchanged a few parting words to the higher-ups, of whom was the well-known lieutenant Cauthrien, and the lesser-known bald man who looked entirely too grumpy to be on this side of the battle.

Jory was there, too, but he lagged behind almost like he wasn’t wholly in love with the idea of being with them again. Not that the sentiment was mutual or anything, Alistair didn’t mind. Jory just wasn’t fun. Having been in the company of someone like Birdy– Garrett, apparently – definitely encouraged that conclusion.

“You know what it is, brother? It’s your pissing mouth,” Alistair last heard Carver say as they walked away.

At that point, they were too distant to hear but his eyes followed anyway. He really expected, given their oh-so-benevolent captain’s orders, a curt or even nonexistent parting. But Garrett seemed to pick up on this at the last minute. He turned around, hair tousled and upright, flushed red, friendly and smiling wide as he had been to that elven boy, and waved them goodbye.

“He sure likes them mages, what with him being a king’s soldier and all,” Daveth said, following Duncan. “You think he would’ve been that chatty if he’d known you’re a templar?”

“Was,” Alistair corrected.

“Right, was.” Daveth nodded lazily.

But Daveth’s question was a good one, and Alistair didn’t know the answer to it.

“Better him than Morrigan.”

 

2

“Drink?”

Fergus looked up to him, the golden boy, that pretty face. Overrated, if you asked him–  and if you really did ask him, he had enough gall to say it. “What, is this a royal request or a royal order?”

Cailan shoved the glass into his hand. “I’m making it a royal order now, you ass.”

“Bastard.”

“A handsome one, yes?”

Fergus took a swig. “Ehhh,” he considered toyingly, “mmmmm, ehhh, no.”

“I beg your pardon, I do recall you telling me you had an affinity for the blond-haired.”

“I’m into one blonde.” Cailan stared hard there, and Fergus elaborated with scrunched brows. “And it’s an Antivan one. Not your Fereldan locks, Cailan.”

Something acrid stirred in their stomachs and neither had quite the dishonesty to blame it on the alcohol. They sat there under the fatigued sky, more distant than they perhaps looked.

“You won’t forget, will you?” Fergus asked, unmoving. But Cailan spun his head.

“Forget what?” he said, unable to withhold the uptight hiss at the end.

“To come to my wedding,” Fergus said.

Cailan’s powerful neck almost twitched. “Oh.”

“There were some complications, namely the whole Crow business– they threatened to have my arm,” Fergus joked, “but we’re sorting it out, Orianna and I. We agreed on a date; it’ll be a little later, in Harvestmere most likely– the day after father’s birthday. You should come to both. Father wou– we would like that.”

Cailan squeezed Fergus’ shoulder, though it was so void of meaning that he might as well hadn’t done so at all. “I won’t forget to.”

They watched the Landsmeet scatter eventually, groups thinning like the night clouds. And when the last cloud frittered in silence, Fergus found himself alone by the balcony. He held the empty glass in one hand, and Cailan’s empty lies everywhere else.

He knew Cailan wouldn’t attend his wedding. Nor would he definitely attend the day before. Fergus knew Cailan, and one could know another too well.

 

3

“Delicious aftertaste, right?” When Ciaran didn’t respond, Alistair took it upon himself to continue talking. “It’s almost amazing how a tad sip like that can taste so bloody bad.” Ciaran didn’t respond to that either, but he sat up from the none too impressive bed – it wasn’t even a bed – and drank the glass of cloudy water beside him.

‘Attend to him while he sleeps’, they’d told him, but Alistair admittedly did more than that. He was one of the two men who carried him back to the tent, cleaned up his face, and fetched him some water to drink and wash in for later.

Alistair even tried to build some sort of rapport with the man’s dog. That part hadn’t been easy. The huge, stubborn thing refused to follow regardless of Alistair’s pleas and pleases, and only did so at the sound of its owner coughing of all things.

But they were all there now, save for Jory.

“Basin’s over there,” Alistair said, pointing. “I tried to get the cleanest water. You can imagine the competition, though, what with a King here and all.”

Ciaran looked at the basin. He twitched a little, maybe more evidently than he meant to, but nodded in snippy gratitude. Alistair watched the man hold his head, stand up and quickly sit back down– the world must have still been spinning for him. When he tried again, his ankles trembled and caved in. There was no questioning his companion’s loyalty then; the dog acted quicker than Alistair did, providing all the support needed to keep him upright up to the water basin.

The gentle sloshing of water almost distracted Alistair. He sat straight after thinking over and sighed.

“Jory didn’t make it,” Alistair announced. Ciaran paused, then returned to washing his hair, slower this time. “He was the last one, after you and Daveth. I don’t know about Daveth. They say the Joining’s a test of fortitude and constitution; if there’s truth to that, he and the corruption are having a compromise. He was eager enough to—” Alistair winced. “Ouch.”

Were they recent? He couldn’t tell from the distance and the umber-washed lighting. Ciaran’s back glared red with welts. Streaks of scratches and cuts, from nape to waist, were left untreated and crustily scarring.

He watched Ciaran dab them gently with his washcloth. Suddenly, Alistair wasn’t so satisfied with the cleanliness of the water he’d brought. Then again, he hadn’t expected injuries.

“You uh… are you alright?” Ciaran nodded. “Okay– well, okay…” Alistair pursed his lips and looked away. The most he could do was allow Ciaran the decency to wash without his scrutiny. “Daveth’s fighting it, but that doesn’t guarantee anything. I expect it’ll just be us lighting that torch. Duncan told me the plan. I know you were with the King too.”

“Can’t say I’m not disappointed. It means I won’t be in the battle where I”—Alistair looked at his warden amulet—“should be, really. But royal orders, right? Oh, and I have something for you.”

Ciaran lumbered forward, hound companion never failing to follow. Alistair knew the man was tall, but sat down as he was, it only occurred to him how intimidating his height actually was. The dull glower he gave wasn’t so delightful either.

“It’s called the Warden’s Oath,” Alistair explained and handed the necklace to Ciaran with care. “There was a hefty amount left in the joining chalice because– Anyway, it serves as a reminder to a warden of their vigil and sacrifice against the darkspawn.”

Ciaran didn’t react much. Or at least, he didn’t react the way Alistair expected. Alistair remembered being given his own amulet, the hot flush of awe and humility, saw that neither of those reached Ciaran, and felt a prick at his nerves. This was deliberate, Alistair was almost entirely sure of it. Watching Ciaran loop the amulet around his dog’s neck to promptly change into his armour remedied little for Alistair’s chagrin– and he descended into venting this irritation under the guise of polishing his sword.

This childishness – which Alistair thought was absolutely reasonable, thank you very much – was sensed as quickly as it had been provoked. He’d heard Ciaran make a noise at him, some cross between a huff and scoff, and looked up to see those adamantine eyes. Those eyes… It had been the first time since the Joining that their eyes actually met, and now that they did, they were maddeningly making the fool of Alistair.

What was his problem?

Alistair stared back in defiance.

Really, what was his problem? And…

And how in the world was this man capable of holding eye-contact this blasted long?!

Alistair tore his eyes away. The sheer stress of those few seconds summoned him to his feet. Ciaran smoothly cast his gaze onto his dog. Always, that dog of his. Alistair figured the dog might as well be a Grey Warden, its owner seemed to value it as one more than the real thing.

But his peeve was easily distracted. Damn his inherent goodness.

“Your dog could use some kaddis,” said Alistair. “We could nip down to the kennels and ask the Kennel Master nicely.”

That had Ciaran up on his feet in no great deal of time. Good for him. Always for that dog of his.

It was raining - not heavily, but it wasn’t so unselfish as to die down, which was alright because Ciaran’s hair was wet anyway. The umber interior gave way for pitch darkness. This was no surprise; it was an hour or so past midnight now. The camp was no longer so lively, no twittering Birdy to pontificate about mage rights, no drinking buddies. Fewer faces but not few, lit up only by moonlight or the odd torch. Almost all the soldiers and Grey Wardens were out by now, down below, getting into formation… together… without them.

Alistair let out an irate sigh. “Alright, let’s get that kaddis.”

The Kennel Master, although busy, recognised Alistair and Ciaran’s dog well enough. Ciaran himself, not so much.

“That’s your mabari, is it? Butch, I believe. I saw him following Duncan around yesterday morning,” he said to Ciaran, then turned to Alistair. “If you’re here about that other mabari, I’m sorry to disappoint. They’ve taken her down.”

“What other– oh.” He’d forgotten Daveth’s apparent visit to the Kennel Master regarding some sick mabari hound. “You mean she’s…?”

“Oh no, not like that. Your other friend brought back plenty of flowers after your trip from the Wilds; I had the poor thing all patched up. She’ll be fighting tonight.”

“Daveth’ll be glad to hear it.”

“Anyway, you needed…?”

“We hoped you’ve any spare kaddis left over for…” Alistair looked at Ciaran’s dog. “Butch?”

Butch barked.

“Yes, that’s alright. It’s over there, see? You’ll have to apply it on your own, though,” the Kennel Master said hastily.

“You’re needed too, huh?”

“Seems so,” he said. He clicked his tongue, calling the attention of a bullnecked, brown dog. “Maker be with you tonight, Wardens.”

The Kennel Master dashed, his own warhound by his side, and eventually was lost in distance and darkness to the bridge. Alistair watched a group of dozen run in the same direction while Ciaran applied white kaddis over Butch. Smart decision, that. Butch had the darkest fur any dog could possibly have; even in daylight, onlookers would sooner believe he was a silhouette with two blue eyes rather than an actual living, breathing hound. It legitimised Alistair’s initial confusion: he’d seen mabaris, but not like this. White kaddis for such an impossibly black dog in the dead of night was more than helpful— if not for differentiating him, then for at least seeing him.

“So… why Butch?”

Ciaran looked up. He gave Alistair those looks, the ones that said: what, isn’t it obvious? ...idiot?

No, it wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t obvious to Alistair, and he squinted and scrunched his nose to show that. Ciaran seemed to be intent on bringing back his bout of irritation, and maybe, just maybe, he would give Ciaran a taste of his own petty medicine—

But the war-horn sounded, and neither anyone nor anything was left untouched by the imbuing melody. Had the King changed his mind? It was too early, everyone knew so. Or perhaps it was the darkspawn giving little choice but for an earlier attack? Whatever it was, they had a job to do.

Ciaran streaked his cheek with whatever kaddis was left.

Alistair nodded. “Like Fereldan like dog.” Ciaran picked up on the unsubtle double entendre but said nothing. They stood up straight, heels digging down on pulpy, wet dirt. “Alright. The Tower of Ishal is on the other side of the bridge.”

They began to run tetherless. They left deep, unflattering footprints behind them for the heavy rain to fashion into puddles. Their heavy breathing was made salient through the meagre strips of grey, slipping past their lips to meet with the cold air. From underneath Alistair’s skin, he felt an infiltrating raspiness. He knew what it meant, knew it never lied, and when his head instinctively turned to the infirmary, he knew only dread.

“Daveth—”

They’d reached the bridge then. It was only Alistair who was partially paralysed by irresolution and ran only to call after Ciaran.

“Ciaran!” he shouted against the tempest abusing his face, carrying water into his eyes. “Ciaran! Listen to me!”

Ciaran’s brows were heavy on his eyes, darkening them to such a severe degree that Alistair was taken aback. Everything was happening too fast, Ciaran was stressed - it showed on his face - and Alistair was making it all unnecessary.

“Ciaran! The infirmary’s under—”

“DUCK,” was all Alistair could make out from all the noise, and it was all he could do. He ducked, just as all the archers did, just as Ciaran did.

The bridge convulsed.

“Shit! That doesn’t sound good,” one soldier shouted.

Behind them, the thick dust settled, ungodly projectiles ablaze in their stead. Not even the rain could dampen their flames, and they were so large that it made it almost impossible to cross.

Alistair looked back. He couldn’t see much past the fire and rain, but he could feel it: the camp was saturating with the taint of darkspawn. Ciaran was hacking to the point of retching, but he heaved Alistair up and dragged him forward. The Tower of Ishal was close by.

What a waste.


End file.
